Nervous
by annamorphos
Summary: "They say you are what you eat. Well, if that's true, then I am nothing." Bella is an anorectic struggling with poor self esteem. When an act of violence lands her in court mandated rehab, she finds solace in her roommate, Alice, as well as a friendly janitor named Edward. All human. Canon couples. Collaborative story.
1. Chapter 1

**_**Inspiration for this chapter was gained from a monologue entitled, "The Orange" by Joyce Carrol Oates. Some of the lines used in this chapter can also be found in there. I will provide a link in my profile to this piece. It's a great monologue. I used it for an Oral Interpretation competition.**_**

* * *

They're looking at me. Across the room, from the corners of their eyes, Jessica and Lauren are watching my every move. This is their usual routine. They tire of their typical, vapid conversations, which usually revolve around the sexual lies they tell, and look for something else to entertain themselves with. It's me. It's always me. They're probably talking about my clothes. I don't dress like the other girls at my school. They wear their mass produced t-shirts, expose their breasts, and otherwise, beg for the male attention. I don't want to be mass-produced. I want to be special.

So rather than sit around in a bubblegum pink tank top, or cerulean blue shorts that show off the lower curvatures of my ass, I'm wearing my grandmother's sweater. It smells like her, and it is warm in the December chill, but that's not why I wear it. I wear it because it's baggy. No one will be able to see … see my … see my … … …

Their voices escalate. They want me to hear. They want the satisfaction of knowing they made me cry. But they won't. I refuse to be caught in their net.

I'm watching the clock. The hands are warring against me. Taunting. Teasing. Tempting. Urging. I briefly wonder how I'm able to stand as the bell rings. It's shrill and deafening, and I actually feel myself flinch in response. The two girls next to me notice and start to laugh. It's nothing I haven't heard before, though. They're always laughing at me.

The hallway beyond the classroom door is spinning, and it takes a great effort to walk a straight line. Still, I know I'm wobbling. I can tell in the perplexed stares I receive from the other students. They hurry out of my way, desperate to clear a path for me. They all know me. They all whisper about me. I know they do. I can hear them.

"_What's wrong with her?"_

"_Is she on drugs?"_

"_She is so weird!"_

I ignore them. That's all I can do, after all. I have no strength left. If I were to turn and shout at them, to insist that they mind their own business, I would faint in the middle of the hallway. That would only exacerbate my problems. So I turn the other cheek, denying their cruel words purchase in the soil of my mind, and shuffle to the end of the hall.

The bathroom door all but collapses underneath the weight of my hand, and I hold tightly to the door handle, fearing I might lose the last of my constitution. I am able to just make it into the handicapped stall before my knees give out. The fake marble floor rushes up and crashes against my kneecaps. I cry out in pain, knowing that I will have a bruise in the morning, but I don't care. As I rip open my backpack, I find the reason behind all the torment, the cause of my struggle.

A large, ripe orange.

In sixty seconds, I will peel off the outer coating and take a timid bite. Not too much, just enough to sate the beast inside me. I know how to wait, how to put off the daily habit that so many people tend to mindlessly. It's a talent. I'm proud of my ability.

I close my eyes and inhale. I smell the sweet citrus, and it sets my body on fire. My mouth starts to water. I have longed for this moment all day. This is my reward, the accolade for my triumph. I don't have to wait much longer.

Not wanting to jump the gun, I open my notebook. I received my progress report today. I don't know why I choose to look at it. I know what it will say. I'm a good student. No. I am a phenomenal student. I have to be. It's the only way to keep the others away. I can't have them prying, trying to understand. They won't. They never will. They still try, though. I hate that. I hate that I have to lie. Liars make me sick. I have to lie, though. I have to say I ate. I have to say that I didn't lose any more weight.

The bathroom door opens, and my hands close reflexively over my juicy prize. I curl up against the toilet, hoping to become invisible. Two sets of footsteps echo, followed by voices. I do not recognize them. They chit chat momentarily, talking about things that do not interest me, such as spending time with friends, dates, and cars.

I don't have friends. Not really, anyway. I have people who think I am their next charity project, those who want to gawk and poke at "the freak," and then, there's Angela.

The strange girls leave the restroom. There is silence before the door pushes open again. I breathe out a sigh of relief as a timid, familiar voice calls out, "Hello?"

"Hello," I respond calmly.

Angela is like me. She hides away, too. We would take one another's secret to the grave. We don't speak of it, though. We don't share tips or recipes as the other girls do. What we have belongs to us and us alone. I hear her enter the stall next to mine. This is the closest to an actual conversation that we will ever have. The silence that stretches on is bloated with curiosities. I only know her name because of the monogrammed name on her book bag. To be honest, I don't even know what Angela looks like.

It's almost time. I start to peel the orange. I can hear Angela struggling with some kind of plastic packaging. I wonder what she has. Potato chips? Oreos? Some kind of candy? Merely thinking of the fattening treats makes me quiver. I wonder if it's the same feeling Jessica and Lauren got the first time they found a pornographic website. I have heard them talking about it. They're addicted, and they don't even realize it.

Am I trembling? Yes, but not because I am weak. I'm excited. This is the most stimulation I get these days. I detest school; I abhor the hormonal ocean that I have been forced into, and the fact that I am required to wear a mask every day. When will it end?

I glance at my watch. My mother will be waiting for me in the parking lot. She and I have a tenuous relationship. It's been this way since Thanksgiving. I hate that holiday. Whoever decided to create a national holiday dedicated to gluttony should have been killed.

Every year, I try to get out of it. It's all the same, after all. Mom and Aunt Sue serving the food, shoveling more and more on my plate, regardless of how many times I tell them to stop. There was this, this gravy … this turkey gravy in this large, sterling silver bowl. It was disgusting. I saw how it was slick with fat, I mean, oily globules of fat.

Each time I tried to pull away, to sit in the other room, Mom would say, "Take some gravy! Take some turkey! More mashed potatoes! More stuffing! More butter! More cranberry sauce! More of this! More of that!"

_More. More. More. More. More._

Thanksgiving, two years ago, was the first time I stuck my finger down my throat. As I turned the lock on the bathroom door, I instinctively knew what to do. It felt so good, so right. I was safe, protected.

Since last month's incident, when I practically stabbed my cousin with a fork when he tried to give me more, Mom's watched me like a hawk. Not that I could blame her. I went from 126 pounds to 120, to 115, to 109. She started asking what was "going on," was I "on a diet or something," was I "trying to starve myself?"

Last night, she barged into my room, fouling up the air with her cigarette, and she took hold of my sweater. She pulled it tight and seeing the shape of my body, I freaked out. I screamed at her to leave me alone, to not touch me. I hate it when people touch me. It's not a phobia, I just … don't like it.

As of today, I weigh 93 pounds. I did this morning, anyway. I've had a diet coke. Four cans of diet coke. So I know I'm heavier. I hate running to the bathroom a dozen times a day, my stomach bloating. I hate that people can see it. It looks like I'm, you know, going to have a baby, pregnant or something. Oh no. I'm never going to do that. I don't want to be a breeder. Another nameless female, pushing out another nameless human. Not special.

It's time. I carefully finish peeling the orange. With a calculated, careful maneuver, I pull off a sliver. The juice drips down my wrist, and for a moment, I get aroused. The deprivation of nourishment can do that sometimes. I am always thinking of this. This moment. This joy. This beauty. It's like a fire. It hurts. The inside of my mouth is on fire with want. The beast wants to tear into the orange. It wants to go find more food, possibly a buffet. It wants to eat and eat, until I am as big as the checkout girl at the supermarket. She has to use a wheelchair. I know. I've seen it. That's what they want me to be. I won't be that. I would rather die than be that.

The tiny piece of orange bursts in my mouth, electrifying the dormant taste buds. I lean back and enjoy the pure delight of the taste on my lips. I know I shouldn't, but I slip another piece into my mouth. I'm in heaven. I can feel something unravel inside of me, a knot loosens. I am free. I hear a tiny thump on the bathroom wall, and I know it's Angela. She's feeling what I am feeling. We share this moment every day. Our own little world.

The happiness is over abruptly as my cell phone starts to ring. I glare at it and curse myself for not remembering to turn off the ringer. I hate being interrupted. This is my time. I dedicate hours to school and family, why can I not get a few moments to myself?

I answer, "What."

"Where are you?" My mother's voice demands. "I've been waiting for almost twenty minutes!"

Has it been that long? Time slips by so easily when I'm in here.

"I'm coming," I snap, ending the call with an angry grunt. A bit of strength has returned. I think I can make it to the parking lot. Here's hoping I can make it to the parking lot.

I gather my belongings, wrapping up the unfinished orange and placing it reverently in the upper pouch of my backpack. After flushing the toilet for appearances, I exit the stall and head into the hallway. I don't say goodbye to Angela. Just like everything else, our goodbyes are silent. It may seem odd and strange, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

I walk steadily, one foot in front of the other, my head down, trying to blend into my surroundings—trying to be anything but what I am. The student body steps out of my way effortlessly, allowing me forward in my own world. They have grown to understand the repercussions for stepping in, for hindering those of us who march to a different tune. Then again, maybe they just don't care. Whatever. It doesn't matter, I suppose.

The front doors to the school loom ahead of me, and I am already tensing. The main hallway is one of Jessica and Lauren's hunting grounds. It is there that they first honed their bullying skills, cornering unsuspecting freshman or sophomores, picking on them for anything. Clothes, makeup, or the lack of those, they don't care. They are merciless vultures, and as a rotting piece of meat, I have learned to just let them have their fun.

As I pass by the cafeteria, I notice one of the posters and smirk. It is that ridiculous propaganda, decorated with anthropomorphic fruit, and in jolly, vibrant letters it says, "You are what you eat." I pause and regard the image with distaste, and I shook my head. You are what you eat; well, if that's true, then I am nothing.

I'm dawdling, and I know it.

I skim by the counselor's office, putting an extra hitch in my step as I notice Mrs. Cope locking her door. She's been breathing down my neck this week, trying to get me to talk to her, to open up to her. The problem is that she is so damn nice. If she were haughty and self-righteous like my Pre-Cal teacher, then I wouldn't have a problem telling her to shove her fake concern up her old, elderly ass. However, since she's basically my grandmother reincarnated, I can't not be nice to her. I hate it, so I avoid her.

As I pass her, I can hear her say my name, but I act like I didn't hear. Do I feel guilty? Kind of. Will I let it stop me? Hell no.

I turn the last corner and am somewhat relieved to see that neither Jessica nor Lauren are lurking. That only serves to make me more nervous. Where are they? What are they up to? I decide that it's not important, and I skitter across the twenty or so feet separating me from the outside world. It's bittersweet. I don't want to see my mother anymore than I want to see Jessica and Lauren.

I'm almost out the door when I hear it, the familiar cackle that belongs to Lauren. Seconds later, her laughter is followed by Jessica's. They're coming. I panic, and for some unknown reason, I pull back inside. I cower behind the massive trashcan, an easy feat for my tiny frame, and I watch as the two girls round the corner.

"Did you see her face?" Jessica squeals, shaking her head so hard that her curly hair swirls around her face. Her cheeks are red, flushed. "What a spazz!"

"I know!" Lauren replies. "Why do they let freaks like her go to school with us normal people?"

I am waiting for them to pass. Judging by the direction they're walking, I'm willing to bet they're heading to the football field. Jessica's boyfriend is the quarterback, so it wouldn't be surprising. I had just breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that they had not seen me, when they suddenly stop.

"Let's see what she has in here!" Lauren says excitedly. "Maybe there's some money."

"Not likely," Jessica sneers. "Have you seen what she wears?"

I peer out from around the trashcan. What is wrong with me? Why didn't I leave when I had the opportunity? There's a flicker of curiosity, though. I want to see what the vultures have snatched from the innocent. I peer around. Cautiously. Carefully. Quietly.

My eyes fall on something familiar. It's a teal book bag, mass-produced, probably from some department store. That's not what is holding my attention, though. The name "Angela" is monogrammed to the front in a bright, neon pink. A sinking feeling rips through my stomach as they pull the zipper open and dump the contents on the floor, ready to divide up the spoils.

No. This can't happen. What can I do, though? I'm significantly smaller, I've never been in a fight, and there are two of them. I hate to think of Angela's privacy being invaded, but how can I help?

And then, it happens.

"What the fuck is this?" Jessica says, emphasizing each word. She pulls out a Tupperware container. From where I am sitting, I can see tiny, plastic bags, each labeled with words I cannot read. I don't need to read them. "Oh my god. You have to see this! What a freak!"

I see red. It's not that they have stolen from someone I, on some level, care about. I've been through that. It's not that they are insulting Angela, and by proxy, me. It's the fact that they are invading something. They are attempting to annex my world. They are at the gates, trying to storm my white castle of perfection. I understand that people like them are a part of every school. I have grown to accept that. What I cannot accept, though, is a blatant violation of personal space. Watching their disgusting, filthy hands clawing at something that has taken Angela hours, maybe days, it makes me furious.

I find strength that I have never known. Rationality abandons me, as does any shred of morality and decency. I am not a girl confronting two thieves; I am a dragon, sworn to protect the gates of a pearly white, glistening city. The sanctity and safety of the castle is mine to protect. I unleash a virulent screech, and I take off running toward them. Before they can pinpoint the location of the shriek, I crash into them. Angela's bag and all the contents spill, shooting out in different directions. Desperate to keep her most cherished possession away from the monsters, I push it away with my foot.

Jessica is helping Lauren up, but I am on them again. My weight pushes Jessica forward and she hits her head against a locker. I ignore her and focus on Lauren. She is kicking at me, trying to free herself. A terrified scream comes from her lips. I can hear doors opening, people shouting, footsteps echoing. I only have a short amount of time.

Moments before hands encircle my biceps, I curl my hand into a fist, I grab Lauren by the scruff of her shirt, and I punch her on the bridge of her nose. Pain shoots up hand. I ignore it. I land another punch. There is blood on my knuckles. Lauren is crying. Her tears mix with her blood and smear across her cheeks. I smile down at her. She is bleeding because of me. The victim has become the hunter.

As I am dragged away from her, I lurch forward and grab the plastic box containing Angela's food. I hold it to my chest. I have won. I am victorious.

* * *

_**Author's Note**: A dear friend of mine pulled me out of hiding to collaborate on this story. Unfortunately, we get together to write very rarely. Considering she's about to start research for her dissertation, updates will be sporadic. You can also find this story on her profile. There's a link on my profile. _

_**Please note**: If you dedice to read this story based on the rating, I am going to be honest with you. This is not a lemon fest. There will be no smut. Recently, a rating of M has become synonymous with "sex, sex, sex." I don't want anyone to have expectations that I do not intend to meet. This is rated M because this story deals with some very adult themes. That is the perfect segue to my next point. This story is meant for readers 18+. Obviously, I cannot moderate who reads this story. I will merely ask you to keep your age to yourself. _

_Please remember that this is a W.I.P. and we are not using a beta. The prose will not be grammatically perfect, but it's perfectly legible. _

_In case you skipped the top section, this chapter was inspired by a monologue called, "The Orange." I provided a link in my profile. It's a great monologue. _


	2. Chapter 2

_Authors: Annamoprhos and The Secret Pen_

* * *

My violent outburst isn't without repercussion. Despite how many times I try to spin the story, it all boils down to one unalienable fact in their eyes: I am sick. Whether it's of the mind, body or soul, I have some kind of illness that has caused me to become a menace to society. I ignore the campus security guard as he tries to intimidate me into confessing responsibility for crimes I did not commit. He wants to blame all his current issues on me. Since I march to the beat of a different drum, I must be responsible for the spray paint on the science building, the gum under the desks, and the writing on the bathroom walls. Why? Convenience.

My hands roam over the plastic box that belongs to Angela. I want to return it to her, but I don't know her last name, her school schedule, what she looks like, her telephone number, nothing. I consider her a close friend, and yet I know nothing about her. Instead, I slip it into my backpack. I know where I can find her. I just need to steal away to our spot.

It's impossible to steal away, though.

The principal comes in and regards me with a pitiful, yet accusing expression. I am suspended, pending an investigation into the events that led up to "the incident." I know the outcome, though. I will be found guilty. I was guilty when I first walked in the front door. They won't break me, though. I refuse to become one of them, one of the masses.

The lawyer, who happens to be the same man my mother is currently sleeping with, crosses the room I am sitting in and tries to get me to talk to him. He wants me to trust him, to open up to him, but I refuse. I don't want to talk to him. I want him to leave me alone. He is tainted. I can see it in his eyes; he thinks I am sick. Why won't they all just leave me alone?

I think back to the previous night. My mother found my hidden treasure. After spending months putting together my trove of sweet rewards, she invaded my sanctuary and destroyed them in mere seconds. Three months worth of allowance down the drain. Almost literally. I screamed as she broke the chocolate bars, potato chips, and other succulent treats in her hands before she flushed them down the toilet along with my sanity.

"Miss Swan?" I am pulled back to the present by the demanding voice of the principal. He is glaring at me now. "Did you hear me?"

"Answer him, Isabella!" My mother snaps, gesturing angrily.

I close my eyes and wish the voices would stop. It's been too long since I've eaten. Way too long. I refused last night's meal and every one before that. The lack of privacy has made slipping away to my quiet place impossible. The sounds of the room are overpowering, and I start to panic. My hands cup my ears, trying to shut them out. There are too many people looking at me. I can't breathe. I. Can't. Breathe. I can't … … …

* * *

Time is an oxymoron of sorts. It both crawls and sprints. It creates and destroys.

* * *

I wake up in the hospital. Several bright, fluorescent lights blind me as I open my eyes. There is a nurse in the far corner checking my chart or doing something that nurses do. When she finally turns around, she offers me a fake smile and welcomes me back to the world. I am hardly paying attention to her, though. My eyes zero in on the needle in my arm, and I find myself growing furious.

"What is this?" I demand, pointing to the I.V. My voice is distorted. It's not as it usually is. What have they done to me?

While the nurse prattles on in a foreign, medical language, I wrap my fingers around the thin piping. The needle dislodges, and I moan in pain as it hooks at an awkward angle before falling out completely. A stream of blood stains the white sheets covering my body. Two warm lines of red cut their way down my forearm, dripping off my elbow. The smell hits me and my head starts to swoon at the odor of my own essence.

The nurse hits a button on the wall and practically flies to my side. Two men dressed in stereotypical medical scrubs rush through the door. Their immense size terrifies me and makes me struggle harder. Men and boys have always frightened me a little, ever since Mike Newton tore my dress and forced me to kiss him in second grade.

My arms are promptly secured while the nurse tends to my bleeding arm. I fight against their hold, leaning over and biting into one of my captors' hands. He grunts and calls for something in a language I can't understand. I watch in horror as the nurse retrieves a syringe. I have a diagnosed phobia of needles, and the sight of the thin, pointy object sends me into a full blow panic. I'm kicking my legs and flailing my arms, regardless of the men restraining me, and I am screaming at the top of my lungs. I'm begging for my mother like a fearful toddler. Where is she? She always says she will protect me. Where is she? Why won't she help me?

I thrash back and forth, and in doing so, I catch my reflection in a mirror. My eyes are wide, my cheeks are a splotchy, vivid red, and my mouth has almost dominated the entire southern part of my face. It is an angry gaping maw, an eternal well of rage and terror. I am not a human being. The dragon has returned. Only this time, I am not protecting the city or the castle. I am defending myself.

I can hear my screams echoing down the hallway as the woman grows closer. I tell her to "Go away! Leave me alone! Get away from me! Stop it! No! Someone help me! Help me! Stop it! I don't want it! Leave me alone!" She doesn't listen. She just keeps coming … with that needle. It pierces my skin, and I scream the loudest I have ever screamed before. My ears are ringing; my eyes are watering. Tears are spilling down my cheeks like waterfalls, and my entire body is shaking.

My body steadily turns on me. I can taste the poison, feel it swimming through my veins, dancing to the rhythm of my heart as it is carried to every corner of my body. My screaming subsides as I lose feeling in my cheeks. The desire or care to cry for help is diluted, stunted. I still try, though. My shrieks are reduced to hapless, hoarse whines. My chest rises and falls as I see the corners of my vision darkening. I fight to stay, but it's useless.

I finally give up the fight. I succumb to the numbness.

That's when everything goes black.

* * *

I am groggy when I finally regain consciousness. Not only is the needle back in my arm, my wrists have been restrained. I take a deep breath and notice the action is very uncomfortable. Shaking my head, I discover that a thick tube has been inserted into my nasal cavity. A feeding tube. I start to cough and gag. My body is fighting for me. It has sensed my weakness and like a white knight, it is coming to my rescue. Vomit pours from my mouth, soaking my lap in warm, sticky bile. I relish in the sensation. My stomach continues to purge all the intrusive contaminants until a younger nurse comes skulking around.

I'm given a sponge bath, during which I glare at the offending nurse whose name I find out is Leah. She's very rough with me, sneering at the way I rush to cover myself up after she all but rips my hospital gown off. A soft whimper cuts through my lips as I grasp at the new, pristine sheets, but they are pulled away. I hunch over, wrapping my arms over my bare skin. I'm exposed. I have to hide. This is too much. The world can't see me. Please stop looking at me. This is mine. Please stop. Why? Why is this happening? Two sets of hands roam over my body, scrubbing with their harsh sponges, violating with their eyes. I want to hide. I want to flee, but I can't. The restraints are unyielding. I am a prisoner.

My eyes shut, and I imagine that I am in my special place. I am in my own personal heaven. My bathroom at home. No one can reach me here. The door is locked. I close down my mind. My eyes open suddenly, and I am floating through the air. I can see the top of my head. As I observe, my body becomes slightly rigid momentarily before going limp, and somewhere, a monitor starts to beat at a sporadic, yet rapid beat.

Flat line.

A warmth spreads through me, starting from my chest and fanning outward. My head turns from the doctors rushing in with a machine. There is a luxurious place that calls to me, a place of rest and relaxation. I can feel it. I am going there. I am leaving.

"_Clear!"_

I hear an echoing voice. I try to ignore it. It is small, but it soon becomes stronger.

"_Clear!" _

The world comes back. I am on the bed, again. My entire body is on fire. I cry out for water, begging someone to put the fire out. A man leans over me, and I panic. I cannot pull away from him. He shines a light in my eyes, mutters something and backs away. There is a prick at my arm, and I am once again thrust into the darkness.

* * *

The judge is eyeing me speculatively. I don't like the way she is looking at me, her eyes roaming over my body as if I am soiling her perfect courtroom with my presence, as if I am dirt. I wrap my arms around my torso instinctively, and I try to turn away. Everywhere I turn, there are more stares. More people staring. More people leering. Gawking. Everyone is looking at me. The spotlight is on me, even though I don't want it. Lauren and Jessica are sitting in the front row. They are snickering and pointing at me. This tiny hint of normalcy grounds me long enough to hear what the lawyer is saying.

I am pleading guilty in exchange for lenient sentence. I'm not surprised that they have made decisions without my consent. I want to be angry at them; I want to renounce the lawyer's words and fight for my freedom, but there's something wrong. I feel clouded, like I'm caught in a giant storm of fog. Breathing is a difficult task, as is thinking. In fact, I can hardly lift my arms. I've lost the ability to move. I should feel terrified, but I am apathetic at best.

My gaze moves down and I see that my mother has dressed me in one of her business suits. It's very big, but the skirt is to my knees. It's too short. I want to cover up, but I cannot move.

"Isabella Marie Swan, pending your completion of the predetermined period, which is six months, you will be released on probation under the supervision of your mother. Do you understand what I have just said to you?"

My head bobs up and down of its own accord. I understand the words, but I cannot interpret the meaning behind them. I am blank. Empty. A huge weight presses down on me from the inside, if that makes sense.

I hear the judge's gavel hit, but I still don't understand what's happening. I am in a daze.

I am on my feet now. How did that happen? Two uniformed guards are helping me and I instinctively cringe away from their calloused, unfamiliar touch. With my shoulders hunched, I am escorted through a side door and straight into an office. What follows is a slew of paperwork, all of which my mother fills out. She intermittently mutters about me to her lover, casting looks in my direction, which vary between pity, disappointment, and disparagement. I watch her kiss him and it makes me want to throw up. But I don't. I sit there in silence, longing for my solitude.

I climb into a car with them. It's big, ostentatious, and belongs to the lawyer. The leather is too slick, too soft for my liking, and the smell is obtrusive and uncomforting. I don't like it, but when I try to open the window, he promptly rolls it back up. My head reclines back against the headrest on its own volition. I recall the "vitamins" my mother handed me this morning and realize why I am in such a fog. They weren't vitamins.

I look out the window and do not recognize the buildings on the side of the window. In fact, there are hardly any buildings at all. We've been driving for a really long time, much longer than necessary to reach home. Rather than the skyline of metropolitan Seattle, I see trees. Tall, thick trees. They shoot up into cloudy sky and seem to go on forever. Where are we?

I ask my mother, "Where are we going?" but she ignores me. So does the lawyer.

There it is. That familiar feeling in my chest. Panic and fear of the unknown. My hands start to shake, and I push them in between my knees in a vain attempt to stifle their quaking. The clarity denied to me earlier is steadily returning. I try to think back to the courthouse, to try and recall something that would explain my current predicament, but all I can recall is the fog. So, for the time being, I waver between panic, suspicion and anger.

The car begins to slow, and we pull up to a large, stone wall, which is at least seven feet tall. The entrance peels open and the lawyer urges us beyond. Where are we? My questions are met with silence. When the vehicle finally stops, I see a large, resplendent looking building gawking back at me. Once upon a time, this place could have been a rich man's mansion. Its grandiosity is ridiculous. Three stories of stylish windows shine in the muted daylight, the bars on them looking both formidable and trendy atop the pristine structure they're attached to.

I tense when I see them—the couple. A woman and a man. The man is too blond and too pale. His face is too inviting, too youthful, and too open. The woman is his equal in paleness, with light brown hair and a gentle expression behind her eyes. Everything about them sets me on edge, and I push myself against the backseat. Renee and the lawyer have left the car and are speaking with the blond man. His partner, the pale woman's eyes are watching me, the tiniest hint of a smile playing on the corners of her lips.

The door separating us is thrust open, and I whimper as she kneels down and smiles at me.

"Hello, Bella," the woman coos. Her eyes glisten and sparkle in the sunlight. They're green. The greenest green that I have ever seen. That's a terrible rhyme. "Why are you all by yourself?"

I frown and my brow creases. What does she mean by that? I am by myself because that is where they left me, that is where I choose to be. I do not answer her. Instead, I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. My eyes are still on her, ensuring that she does not move closer.

The blond man disappears into the building beyond, my mom and the lawyer following him. It's just me and the woman now. She is still kneeling there, smiling at me as though we are lifelong friends. The awkwardness of this situation is staggering, and I'm having a difficult time with my composure. Why won't she just go inside and leave me alone?

A pang in my nether regions has me squirming in discomfort, as my bowels signal their incessant need for relief. Not wanting to leave the safety of the car, I squeeze my legs together and try to will the burning ache away, but focusing on the issue only makes it that much more unbearable.

Another feeling pulls my attention away from my whining bladder, and as I realize it's my stomach pressing against my thighs, I shudder. It's back. The swollen belly. I hate it. Mom has been watching me lately, preventing me from slipping away and hiding. Now the proof is hanging there, mocking me, proving how disgusting I am. I quickly shove my hand down to try and cover the monstrosity. It is useless.

That woman is still there, staring at me. Her patient expression aggravates me. I want her to go away. Why is she still here?

"Do you need to use the restroom, Bella?" I can't help but turn when she asks this question, and as I do this, she continues, "You must be very uncomfortable after such a long drive. The restroom is just inside. I can show you, if you like."

I try to turn, but I only succeed in sending another series of aches through my lower extremities. My eyes focus on the doorway past the woman's shoulder, past her uncommonly calm façade, and the longing sets in almost immediately. As the idea of using the toilet and immediately returning to the car traipses through my mind, my body betrays me and a tiny bit of urine escapes. I tighten up to prevent anything further but I can feel the tiny lapse in control seeping into my underwear.

I won't sit around in soiled underwear.

Slowly, my hand grips the handle and opens it, filling my nose with the scent of rain, freshly mowed grass, and moisture rich soil. The daylight is obtrusive, even though it is masked by a thick blanket of cloud cover, and I put up a hand to block it from my view.

As I shut the door, I discover that the woman is right where I left her, only now, she is standing as opposed to kneeling. I look at her expectantly, and she proceeds toward the front of the building. There is at least ten feet between us at all times, and each time she glances back at me, I increase it by a few more inches. By the time she reaches the interior of the building, I am standing outside—alone. My nervousness picks up as I stare at the door before me, but the pain coming from my bladder kicks me the rest of the way.

The inside foyer is extravagant, with dark, wood floors, white walls, and an assortment of wall art, which includes paintings, portraits, and framed certificates of some kind. Rather than idle, I shuffle in the direction Esme silently points, and I find myself in a small bathroom. It isn't unlike the one at my home. Maybe a tad bigger.

My body sings as I allow my body to follow the natural rhythm of the digestive process, and I catch myself leaning my head back in a wave of ecstasy. It's the deprivation thing again.

As I wash my hands and dry them on a paper towel, my attention is pulled to the window against the far wall. I draw the pastel curtains and peer out into the outside world. Seattle was typically dreary and wet during winter, often times snowy. This place is dreary, wet, snowy, and just… well, at the risk of sounding repetitive, dreary. Staring into the cloudy, hopeless sky is like staring into a mirror. However, as I look at the gazebo positioned near the tree line and the mostly dead garden beside the empty swimming pool, I actually catch myself imagining this place in spring and summer. It could be beautiful.

There is a knock at the door, and I am reminded that I am in a strange place. Strange people are surrounding and judging me, and I feel myself start to panic again. My hands shake as I open the door, and I am horrified to find that the lady is not waiting for me. The blond man is. He leans against the wall, his hands in his pockets, and he smiles at me. I realize that he and I are alone in that hallway, and my fingers tighten around the door knob as the fear overwhelms me.

"Hello, Isabella," he says cordially, inclining his head slightly as he addresses me by my birth name. No one has ever called me Isabella conversationally. Only when I do something wrong. My subconscious forces me to tense. "I'm Dr. Cullen, but you may call me Carlisle if you like."

I stare at him, distrust pulsating behind my eyes. My hand is still gripping the doorknob to the bathroom as though it's a life raft and I am on the verge of drowning.

"I'm certain you must have a lot of questions," he continues, undeterred by my continued silence. "I can answer them now. My office is right over"—he motions to a glass door with the name Dr. Carlisle Cullen etched into the exterior in black, sans script text—"there. Are you okay with that, or would you like to save that for another time?"

"No, I'm not okay with that" is what I want to scream at him, but instead, I recreate every encounter I've ever had with a male. I hunch my shoulders forward and pull my head down, removing the doctor from my line of sight, and I quickly scurry to the nearest door, which so happens to be the same one I entered from. Whether created by my imagination or not, I hear an evil hiss emanating from behind me, almost as though I am being stalked by a predator. My heartbeat accelerates and I breathe a sigh of relief as I escape to the outside world.

My relief is short lived. For as I step into the grass and fill my lungs with cold air, I start to cough. It is not due to an illness; it is in surprise. For you see, as my eyes rake across the lawn and rest on the driveway, I discover that something is missing. The car that I arrive in. The lawyer's car is gone. I look from side to side, my chest heaving as I begin to lose the last of my resolve. Ignoring the blond man watching me from the door, I hurry back into the building and start opening doors, looking for my mother. Where has she gone? I stop in the middle of the foyer as I find a familiar looking luggage set abandoned there. The monogramming on the outside confirms what I have surmised in the last two minutes. The tears spill down my face as I realize that I am alone.

* * *

_From the authors: Bella's Anorexia Nervosa is highly exaggerated in this chapter, however, some of what she goes through has been seen in real life Eating Disorder patients. Some have been known to rip out feeding tubes, bite doctors, and have emotional breakdowns. _

_Questions? Comments? Concerns?_

The next chapter may take an obnoxiously long time. As stated before, The Secret Pen is about to start research/work on her doctoral dissertation and I'm returning to university full-time at the end of August. We get together when we have time, but unfortunately, that's not very often. Please be patient. :( _  
_


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